


call you up, invest a dime

by kevystel



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Backstory, Best Friends, Character Study, Friends With Benefits, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Lovers to Friends, M/M, POV Outsider, Pre-Canon, Unrequited Love, christophe's a pretty chill guy, i had some Feelings about young!viktor i needed to get out, i'm so glad chris has a bf/husband now, unintentional homme fatale viktor, well lowkey unrequited at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-03 08:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8704102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kevystel/pseuds/kevystel
Summary: ‘Get your mind out of the gutter,’ Christophe tells him, snorting. He bumps his nose against Viktor’s cheek, and Viktor stoops obligingly and lifts Christophe onto his back, letting Christophe wrap his legs securely around Viktor’s waist.
  ‘All your fault,’ replies Viktor amiably. ‘Carry you back to the hotel? God, the things I do for you.’


(aka the chris-is-viktor's-ex fic we sorely need)





	

**Author's Note:**

> [this](https://www.instagram.com/p/BAlTRJeBhfN/) is viktor and christophe sorry i don't make the rules  
>  gift for berry! title from happy together by the turtles (tho i wrote this with [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fk4BbF7B29w) playing on repeat ngl)

Christophe likes to think he isn’t a sentimental person. He’s sixteen years old when he manages to place on the podium at Worlds, and he can tell immediately that Viktor doesn’t remember their first meeting. Viktor greets him with a blankly gracious smile, as impeccably poised as usual, and pulls Christophe’s chair out for him at the press conference table.

Christophe sits down. He’s shivering in the musky air-conditioning of the hall. Next to him, Viktor’s side profile is as calm as a painted angel’s. Christophe takes one of the bottles of mineral water from the announcer — slides a second one over to Viktor, who accepts it with a nod of thanks. The camera flashes are intoxicating. Christophe licks his lips and tries to breathe.

‘Thank you. I’m looking forward to the next season,’ says Viktor into the microphone. He must be very thirsty, for he’s drunk most of his water in the first scant minutes. He pushes a few silvery strands of hair behind his ear, his composure never faltering. Christophe nervously adjusts the sleeves of his jacket. Viktor glances at Christophe out of the corner of his eye, and Christophe sees him incline his head very slightly in Christophe’s direction — a gentle reminder aimed at the press, _go on, direct some questions to our silver medallist_. Christophe’s heart skips a beat.

The next few questions are for Christophe. Viktor folds his hands tranquilly on the table before them. Christophe answers fluidly and fluently, barely ever tripping over his tongue; such things come naturally to him. This is the first time he’s been a medallist in the senior division and it certainly won’t be his last. Viktor nods along to Christophe’s answers, mouth parting like velvet as he exhales. He tilts his water bottle upwards to catch the last few drops and Christophe watches, fascinated by how the light glints on the precise line of his throat.

There’s another spurt of blinding light in Christophe’s peripheral vision, and he turns at once to follow it, the smile warming his lips; he’s always had a knack for searching out the cameras. He feels Viktor turn his head too, a well-trained reflex. Christophe didn’t expect the weight of Viktor’s presence to be this heavy. The shocking blue of Viktor’s eyes is intent and glittering, and here’s Christophe beside him: a new face on the podium, a new name to reckon with. Side by side for the world to see. Christophe’s pulse is pounding hard enough to be heard. He wants to win, and win again — he can do it. He knows he can. He’s not experienced enough to challenge Viktor’s dominance yet, but it will happen. Future seasons, future years. He’ll work harder.

He can’t wait.

Christophe doesn’t catch the exact words, too caught up in the clamour of the press and the noise of his own head. But he hears the discordant note of another voice, a less friendly voice calling out to Viktor; and Christophe looks up in surprise, searching for the face behind the well-concealed derision. It’s sourly out of place in the warm flush of this room. It’s an innocuous question but unmistakably hostile, something like _how might your physical appearance have influenced the judges’ scoring?_ and Viktor, who is eighteen, reflexively crushes the empty bottle in his hand.

There’s a brief, startled silence. Viktor’s expression hasn’t changed. Christophe opens his mouth to speak, to defend their champion — as it turns out, he doesn’t need to. Viktor scans the packed room without moving his head. Pinpoints the guilty reporter with that placid gaze. Smiles broadly. Says: ‘Next question.’

Christophe falls a little bit in love, then.

* * *

The problem is that Viktor is _pretty_ in a way that Christophe isn’t. Christophe is a little older now, a little wiser, and he’s shooting up and his voice falls deep into his chest and his limbs thicken. He spends a few awkward, anxious moments in front of the mirror every morning. Trying to persuade his reflection to be the graceful creature he feels himself on the ice. Viktor, on the other hand, is just as inhuman off the rink. It’s impossible to keep your eyes off him. Backstage, seated on the floor to do his stretches, Viktor looks so delicate. His features are fine and his motions long and polished. He should be much more breakable than he is. And yet. He pushes his body past its fragile limits, makes gravity look like a farce. It makes Christophe’s skin prickle.

He’ll reach that standard some day.

Christophe strolls past with his coach, hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, and Viktor looks up — long hair falling into his face, he never ties it back until the very last minute — and waves. Christophe grins. He taps his fingers against his thigh in anticipation.

At the banquet afterwards, having taken bronze after one mistake too many in his free skate, Christophe is nodding blindly along to a group of sponsors when Viktor slides into view. He winds his way towards Christophe, dodging bystanders with consummate skill. Lays a hand on Christophe’s elbow. Christophe can taste the cologne and champagne heavy in his throat. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have to steal Chris away for a moment.’

Both Christophe’s and Viktor’s accents are so thick that it takes the sponsors a few seconds to digest the words. Then they’re weaving through the crowd to the other side of the hall, laughing a bit dizzily, before the group can pounce on Viktor instead like sharks smelling blood in the water.

‘Thank you,’ says Christophe, deeply relieved. He dislodges Viktor’s hand casually and slings his own arm around Viktor’s waist. Viktor smells heady and sweet, and he’s obviously had a few drinks already to get him through this. ‘I was beginning to think I’d have to _accidentally_ spill some champagne on one of them.’

‘Oh. Blue suit?’

Christophe glances over his shoulder to check. They’re nearly at the entrance to the banquet hall now and Viktor hasn’t paused or looked back once. ‘Yes.’

‘Classy as always, that one,’ Viktor says in an undertone. There isn’t a trace of disgust in his low, pleasant voice. ‘Next time ask him about his wife, and if that doesn’t work, ask him about his girlfriend.’

Christophe laughs.

‘I like you when you’re cruel.’

‘Yes,’ Viktor agrees. He turns to Christophe with a listless smile. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

The way he says it, it sounds like an invitation. It _could_ be an invitation. Christophe shrugs. They make it all the way to the corridor, soft golden light leaking out of the mirror-lined bathrooms behind them, before Christophe takes the plunge. _Why not_ , he thinks — and he turns on his heel, cups Viktor’s unsurprised face in both hands and kisses Viktor on the mouth. Viktor’s tongue tastes of liquor and honey and, strangely, a little like salt. Christophe takes hold of Viktor’s tie and grasps it firmly.

Viktor smiles wider.

* * *

Viktor’s eyes light up when he hears Christophe’s free program music for the first time. ‘I like it.’ He leans against the rink barrier, pushing his hair out of his face. He’s dressed in a long-sleeved black practice shirt and threadbare pants, and his jacket’s tied loosely around his waist, which shouldn’t look as good on Viktor as it does. ‘It’s very you.’

‘Really?’ Christophe asks, flattered and surprised and uncertain all at once. He takes the phone and earbuds back from Viktor. ‘I’ve never done _sexy_ before. I’m not sure how it’s — ah, you’ll have to show me, Viktor.’

Viktor gives Christophe a _look_ because he’s used to Christophe’s lines by now, and Christophe revels in the thought that he is the only person who gets to see Viktor Nikiforov rolling his eyes. Viktor skates backwards abruptly and glides into an effortless loop around the practice rink, flinging his arms outwards with his momentum. Christophe pushes himself off, as well, intending to skate a parallel loop in the opposite direction. But Viktor snaps his fingers imperiously to get Christophe’s attention and Christophe slides to a stop, laughing.

‘It’s easy. I’ll show you.’ Viktor extends a hand, although not towards Christophe. He makes an intricate gesture that Christophe recognises from Viktor’s own short program this season. ‘You just — okay, don’t think about it too hard. You can do it. It should come naturally to _you_ , Chris.’

‘Um,’ says Christophe.

‘You see this,’ Viktor says, and breaks into his rapid-fire step sequence, the lean muscles of his thighs rippling like satin. Christophe always appreciates Viktor’s choreography; it amazes him how Viktor doesn’t need music to capture his audience’s hearts, just the knife-flick of his smile and the careless, fluid rhythms of his body. Viktor tosses his hair back and winks at Christophe. ‘Don’t do this.’

Christophe blinks. ‘What?’

‘Don’t copy me,’ Viktor tells him. Christophe fishes an elastic band out of his pocket (he’s learned to carry hair ties whenever he’s with Viktor) and Viktor takes it from Christophe, pulling his hair into a messy bun. ‘We’re two different people. You have your own style. And your music’s different from mine, at any rate.’

It’s true. Viktor likes classical music, tangoes and ensemble pieces and the occasional aria — the rich complexity of sound suits Viktor’s death-defying jumps, his strength, his wild ambition. Still, Christophe wrinkles his nose. He gets what Viktor’s trying to do but it’s not exactly helpful at this point in time. Though Viktor’s a born teacher, his approach centres on building other people’s confidence. Viktor doesn’t seem to understand that not everybody is as technically perfect as him. Christophe skates a tense little figure eight in place, placing his hands on his hips.

‘What advice would you give me, then?’

Viktor says: ‘Dance like you’re trying to seduce me.’

Christophe doesn’t. In the end, he doesn’t. Viktor is important to Christophe, sure, but Christophe’s _never_ skating for Viktor. He has pride. He’s never skating for anybody except himself. The audience loves it, though. He throws his chin up in satisfaction, throws his arms out to catch the rain of flowers, and afterwards he slips backstage where Viktor is waiting for him in the quiet shadows.

‘How was that?’

‘Brilliant, Chris,’ Viktor says, and ducks his head to hide his smile. He nudges Christophe against the wall and nuzzles at the curve of his neck until Christophe has to hiss and shove his knee between Viktor’s thighs.

* * *

Christophe wins the European Championships by an accident. It’s not supposed to happen like this. It doesn’t count. He goes on last; after Viktor’s free skate, Christophe’s coach takes him by the shoulders, shakes him a little, hisses in his ear: ‘Don’t you ever break down like that, Chris. Don’t you ruin your health. I won’t let you.’

It’s been years since he and Viktor met properly for the first time. Long enough for Christophe to make a name for himself. Christophe has accepted that he’ll never reach Viktor’s once-in-a-generation level of fame, and he doesn’t mind — it gives him something to dream about. Something to aim for. It warms his blood when he elbows Viktor on the podium and whispers, _congratulations on breaking your own record_ , or when he rolls over in the hotel bed and nips at the spot underneath Viktor’s ear and says, not quite joking but not really meaning it either, ‘Maybe I’ll beat you this time. Who knows?’

‘I’m sure you will,’ Viktor replies, uninterested.

So it’s a shock when Viktor falls, catastrophically, drawing audible gasps. Christophe is standing close enough to hear the nauseating crack as something snaps, and he can feel everybody flinching. Viktor falls _twice_ , because of course he picks himself up and finishes his program. And of course he lands another jump badly, unable to keep his balance with his injured leg. Christophe bites his lip. He thinks Viktor might be crying from the pain. And then he goes out onto the ice and skates a flawless program and wins.

It’s a fluke. He didn’t beat Viktor fair and square. Viktor should have gotten gold: his base score was higher, his program components breathtaking as always. Christophe knows this. They both know this. They’re not rivals in the true sense of the word because that would imply they’re equals. Christophe doesn’t bump into Viktor, afterwards, too caught up with interviews and shaking hands. It’s only much later that Viktor calls out to _him_ in the hotel corridor, Viktor’s coach hovering protectively like a gargoyle at Viktor’s side: ‘Hello, European champion!’

Christophe waves. He doesn’t quite know how to handle this. There’s no bitterness in Viktor’s eyes. He could be saying good morning to the postman.

Christophe is distracted at the banquet, not just due to the new attention from sponsors. He’s got so many people to take pictures with; he’s got to catch up with his old friend Katsuki Yuuri, the junior champion. All around him, his fellow skaters are blossoming as the years roll by in a flutter of adrenaline. Petite little Georgi Popovich has had a massive growth spurt and discovered the wonders of hair gel, and Viktor has started braiding his hair back, to let the world see more of his face. Christophe enjoys observing his friends, his fiercest competitors — seeing them evolve. Yuuri is delightful and Christophe looks around to introduce him to Viktor, they’ll love each other, but Viktor is nowhere to be seen.

He’s probably resting. Christophe suspects that Viktor is more upset about missing his exhibition skate than losing the competition. The gala is the only part of every competition that Viktor unabashedly loves, and Christophe’s never going to be able to empathise but he can… he can understand that, sort of.

This is the first time in years that they haven’t slept together at a competition. Christophe shrugs it off. It’s okay. You learn not to expect much from Viktor Nikiforov.

* * *

‘Stockholm.’

‘I haven’t been to Stockholm,’ Christophe responds petulantly. They’re wandering along the banks of the Seine, the wind chafing at their cheeks, and the end of Viktor’s scarf smacks Christophe in the face every time he turns. ‘Um. Stockholm syndrome?’

Viktor sighs deeply. ‘Come on, you can do better than that. Okay, here’s a fact: apparently it’s one of the best cities in the world for gay people. I read it in a magazine.’

Christophe chuckles. ‘Of course you would remember something like that.’

‘I thought it might be relevant to your interests.’ Viktor leans precariously to one side so that he bumps into Christophe, who stumbles. ‘Hmm?’

Christophe shoves him back, but not too hard. ‘Fine, my turn. Campione d’Italia.’

‘Cheat!’ says Viktor, laughing. ‘You can’t use places that you’ve actually lived in. Try again.’

‘Your memory only serves you well when it works to your advantage,’ Christophe observes. He throws one arm around Viktor’s shoulders, the warmth radiating into him even through their coats. The night’s cool and alive and gold lights shimmer on the dark water, catching the low noises of the city which drift out behind them. ‘Paris?’

‘ _Boring_ ,’ Viktor says. ‘You’re getting bored of this game.’

‘It’s not a game when nobody actually wins.’

‘That,’ Viktor announces into the electric nighttime, ‘is the most Chris thing I have ever heard you — oof!’

Christophe has draped both arms over Viktor’s neck and forced them both to a stop. ‘I’m tired of walking.’ He kicks at Viktor’s ankles. ‘Bend over.’

Viktor puts a hand to his throat. ‘What, now? Here?’

‘Get your mind out of the gutter,’ Christophe tells him, snorting. He bumps his nose against Viktor’s cheek, and Viktor stoops obligingly and lifts Christophe onto his back, letting Christophe wrap his legs securely around Viktor’s waist.

‘All your fault,’ replies Viktor amiably. ‘Carry you back to the hotel? God, the things I do for you.’

‘Nonsense. You’re strong enough.’

Viktor hums in response and merely starts walking again. It’s not far to the hotel, anyway. The rocking motions of his slow footsteps are soothing — like a ship, or a cradle — and Christophe tucks his face against Viktor’s shoulder, breathing in the homely scent of old leather and soap and a hint of sweat. There’s no moon tonight. Beside them, the surface of the river rustles in contentment, and he can feel the sharp curve of Viktor’s cheekbones shift with his smile.

‘Try not to get hard,’ Viktor says, amusement deep and sultry in his voice.

‘And what’ll you do if I do, hmm,’ Christophe murmurs into Viktor’s neck. He feels good. He feels good about himself, really. It doesn’t matter that he started out idolising Viktor; _everyone_ started out idolising Viktor. He’s riding the waves of their shared movements as they make their way back to the hotel in the fading dusk, being piggybacked by his best friend, and he couldn’t care less who wins what.

* * *

It’s the years that make them grow apart, honestly — nothing that can be avoided, just the passing of time and the beginnings of talk about retirement, and Christophe’s age starts to make itself known in his knees and ankles. No. He’s got strength in him yet. He wins, and he’ll keep winning, and he puts up horrified, laughing protests when skaters _younger_ than him mope about retiring. Maybe crippling insecurity comes with being a figure skater, Christophe reflects sometimes. Well. He’s gotten off easy, then. ‘Don’t you _dare_ give up until I do,’ he tells Yuuri when Yuuri fails to qualify for the GPF on his first try, hand gripping the boy’s shoulder; and Christophe’s not going to retire until Viktor does so there’s that.

They have — kind of — stopped having sex regularly, now that the adrenaline and attraction has worn off with so many seasons together. Christophe has a new boyfriend (he uses the word loosely — they haven’t sat down and talked about it) and Viktor has no one, as usual. He jumps into lakes with all his clothes on and Christophe says _oh, for fuck’s sake_ , and jumps in after Viktor. He dances to the radio in Christophe’s apartment, arms twining above his head. He laughs at jokes that aren’t funny in English and sleeps with Christophe’s cat, the long line of his back pale and pristine against the bedclothes.

Now they’re in Christophe’s hotel room in Vienna — during a rare breathing space post-competition — and Viktor is sitting crosslegged at the foot of the bed, long hair spilling over his shoulder, painting his fingernails with an expression of cool concentration. He barely glances up as Christophe stalks into the room and curls up in bed behind him, setting his nose and mouth against the hollow of Viktor’s collarbone.

He breathes in. ‘Viktor,’ Christophe says without opening his eyes. ‘Viktor, I don’t know what it is you’re using, but you smell like my mother. This needs to stop.’

‘Oh,’ says Viktor, cheeks pink. ‘I’ll go shopping tomorrow.’

* * *

They brush elbows in the hallway at the World Championships and Viktor catches hold of Christophe’s arm, eyes bright and feverish with the first spark of life Christophe’s seen in years. ‘Chris!’

‘Viktor!’ Christophe scoops him into a quick embrace and marches them away down the corridor together. He pats Viktor’s bottom for the fun of it and Viktor laughs, which has to mean that something’s wrong. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m going to cut my hair,’ says Viktor — a non-answer, but it bursts out of him like he’s telling Christophe a secret. High and strained. ‘I want short hair. I’ll —’

‘ _What_ ,’ Christophe says. ‘Please don’t.’

‘It’ll look amazing,’ Viktor promises. He’s right.

**Author's Note:**

> i woke up in the middle of the night going 'why tf would yuuri be at the european championships' SHIT sorry try not to think about it pls


End file.
